


the devil at the end of the lane

by writingramblr



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Black Cats, Grief/Mourning, Heavy Angst, M/M, Masturbation, Obscurial Credence Barebone, Rating May Change, Small Towns, Southern Gothic, Wet Dream, Workaholic Original Percival Graves, mary lou is quite dead, symbols of magic, the barebone siblings are all magical
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-03-22
Updated: 2018-03-22
Packaged: 2019-03-31 23:43:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,708
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13985838
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/writingramblr/pseuds/writingramblr
Summary: Lost in a haze of grief, Percival Graves is blissfully unaware of the dangers of the small town that he’s chosen to settle in.He’s not really bothered because it’s simply not his job anymore, why should he care?That is at least up until he starts actively paying attention to rumors that were previously only heard while in the midst of a drunken stupor.He’s not blind to suspicious activity, though he is tired of having bad things follow him everywhere he goes.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Lynds](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Lynds/gifts).



> happy southern gothic AU anniversary~ and the ides of march, i wrote this during nanowrimo, even tho i didnt plan to do it. its been through several rigorous edits and it's a complete reversal of my original fic, found [ here ](https://archiveofourown.org/works/10310549)
> 
>  
> 
> idk how else to tag you but have a gift fic friend <3

Everything starts off nicely enough, when he arrives in Uncertain Texas, after leaving Los Angeles, it’s practically a speck of dust on the map compared to California. It’s what he needs after the utter PR disaster that had cost him the use of his left arm for seven months along with his former partner. He’d gotten a medal and lots of hush money to retire quietly and not make a big deal out of it, and all he’d done was taken it, and quickly bought a one way ticket the hell out of there.

Lost in a haze of grief, Percival Graves is blissfully unaware of the dangers of the small town that he's chosen to settle in. He’s not really bothered because it’s simply not his job anymore, why should he care? That is at least up until he starts actively paying attention to rumors that were previously only heard while in the midst of a drunken stupor. He’s not blind to suspicious activity, though he is tired of having bad things follow him everywhere he goes.

It hadn’t been a difficult choice, putting the horrors of that case behind.

Mainly because it meant he wouldn’t have to attend any more funerals and ceremonies pretending he was okay and nothing bad had happened. The drug kingpins still have too tight a hold on anything for Percival to have made a real difference.

He knew that, deep down, all along, that he’d been working on borrowed time, and Theo had simply… been caught in the crossfire.

It’s unfortunate that his death had really been the only thing to snap Percival out of it, but, there it was. He now has enough money to buy a rundown house at the end of _‘dreary’_ lane, and hope and pray it’s not _too_ haunted, or whatever people say about abandoned houses. There’s a massive mansion, pre war era, down the lane further, he only knows because he’s heard gossip, and looked at google earth pics.

It’s nice, looks out of his budget and out of his way. His closest neighbor. So be it. He has to walk three miles, or drive five minutes to get to the town really, and Percival doesn’t mind it one bit. At this very moment in time, he hates people.

He despises gossip, and he actively avoids looking into a single person's eye when he goes through the liquor shop, the gas station, and the grocery store. Percival gets back to his new home with a truckload of things, and he takes almost half an hour to put it all away, just because he can.

He has nowhere to be, no one to impress, and when he’s done, he has a cigar out on the porch, watching the sunset bleed into the trees, until all that remains is a red glow that melts into the lingering fog. It’s not yet cold enough for it to be so foggy, but it just _is_.

Percival snorts, and then goes back inside to pour his first drink. If he remembers to eat every five hours during the day, he’ll be lucky. Sleeping is aided by the whiskey, or bourbon, or whatever he decides on for the night, and it just barely dulls the nightmares.

No therapy, no medication, Percival had declared he’d starve out the post traumatic stress they said he’d have for… months, maybe a year, long after his arm and side had healed. He didn’t care. He doesn’t. He’s fine.

A week passes the same. And then another.

It’s only when he has to return to the liquor store, out of booze, that he catches the first whispers about him. Not Percival himself, but his elusive and supposed neighbor. He didn’t even know for sure that the big white house hidden among the trees was even occupied, but it is, apparently. Percival half listens for a few moments as he’s waiting to pay, and catches the words ‘possessed, murderer, _cannibal’_ before he laughs aloud.

“Ya’ll really do have nothing goin’ on in your lives to be making up such bullshit.”

He’s only been in Texas two weeks, but somehow he’s picking up the vernacular like he grew up there. Percival can see that it grates on the clerk and he just smiles wider, thanking them profusely for their service. The only thing worse about southern hospitality is how much hostility lies underneath the pretty words.

Most of the time, when people wish him well or ask him how he’s doing, they don’t give a shit, they’re just looking for juicy news about him. The newcomer. He knows how it works. He gives them nothing. In return, they leave him be. Percival gets back home and puts the whiskey in the fridge, before going for another cigar outside. There are probably about one hundred unread emails on his laptop, but he’s not dared to open it since arriving and settling in.

Maybe he won’t ever look at it. There’s always the notion of burning it, or beating it to shards of metal and plastic. The last thing Percival wants is a reminder of what he’s escaped. But it comes anyway. Nightmares haunt him still, and no amount of liquor can completely remove the pain that flares up when he rolls onto his arm in the midst of a dream.

Eventually, laying there becomes pointless, so Percival gets up, and staggers out to the living room, half dressed, if the sling even counts as clothing. He pours two fingers of whiskey into an icy glass and prays it’ll work to knock him back out. He sips it right in front of the window in the kitchen.

From there he can look out onto the lane which winds sharply to the left into trees, and on the right goes for a ways, turning from a pair of ruts in the grass to a dirt road before it arrives to split the town down the center. It’s usually more abandoned than driven or walked on, especially considering the current hour.

However, as Percival is finishing up the last of his drink, he sees a pale shape starting to cross in front of his house. He squints, and a better outline takes form, it’s tall, slender, with darkness licking down over its shoulders. It’s quite obviously _someone_ , and they’re lit up only by moonlight. Sleep walking?

He’s not sure. He shouldn’t care, shouldn’t get involved in whatever strange things this town has going on, but he does anyway. He sets the glass down with a clunk and goes to grab a spare throw afghan from the couch.

One of the few things that Texas and California have in common is the love for all things from south of the border, whether it comes to food, attire, or languages.

He runs outside in just his house slippers and pants, feeling dew soaking into the fabric around his ankles, chilling him thoroughly. “Hey! Hey, are you okay?”

Percival used to be a policeman, then a detective, so despite how much he hates being like this, he’s naturally curious and still wants to do what’s best. But when he’s faced with a person that could be a danger to themselves, naked or not, he’s more than a little concerned.

He gets right in front of the person, and it becomes obvious that it’s definitely a young man, long hair and slender build notwithstanding. Percival holds out the blanket like a shield, as best as he can with one good arm, and shakes it a little. “Hey. Wake up now. I need you to wake up, okay?”

Their eyes _are_ open, he thinks, and pure white as the driven snow, like their pale skin, but the second he blinks, it’s apparent their eyes are closed. They were never open.

Percival’s just… seeing things now, drunker than he should be. He should be asleep himself. He tries tossing the blanket at them, aiming to cover their head and shoulders so he can snap his fingers right in their ear, and if that doesn’t work, he’ll pull them into a headlock.

It’s stupid, maybe suicidal, if they’re out to harm someone, but Percival does it anyway. He feels the young man go limp, and he curses. He can’t really catch and hold anyone long, not like this.

“Please! Wake up!”

 


	2. Chapter 2

Credence is more than a little mildly amused. He’s never been interrupted during one of his meditation sessions, and it’s a harvest moon too, better than a full moon for picking ingredients. He’d been hoping to stumble upon some bushes of spider lace to add to his potion stores. Unfortunately, it seems fate has other plans. Like introducing him to the new stranger in town, the wounded former detective from the golden state, chased by demons of his own making, and trying to drown his sorrows in as many bottles of liquor his body will take.

Credence can sense that his aura is weaker at the moment because of what he’s just had to drink. It’s adorable how the man is trying to be helpful, seeing him and automatically thinking that he’s sleep walking. It’s a good excuse, Credence muses, perhaps he’ll use it.

When he’s pulled _hard_ into the man’s chest by his one good arm, he goes limp willingly, and tries to poke his head out from under the blanket, yawning for effect.

“Wh-here am I?” He mumbles, and the man sighs heavily, already faltering in his steps. Credence quickly charms him to sober up, keeping him alert, clearing any possible headache with merely a graze of fingertips against the side of the man’s wrist.

The blanket settles around his shoulders, and he’s able to get a good up close look at the man, while his power coma fades. As he started out his walk earlier, he’d fallen into the sort of trance he’d been trained to consider his resting state even while awake, it resulted in his eyes going white, and his power humming under his skin.

The effect was like a magical energy detector and absorber.

He’d been out walking for the same reason, albeit not naked, when the man first moved into his house, and Credence had merely used a shield on himself to go unnoticed.

“You’re in front of my property. Do you know your name?”

Credence bit back a smile. He was unaware the road could be owned by anyone.

“I-I think so. What about you sir? Who are you?”

It’s cheap, but playing the damsel in distress is something Credence learned early on was a surefire way to help combat the whole _‘he’s a devil worshipper and a murderer’_ rumors of nonsense if he gets the chance to.

As a result, half the town thinks the worst of him, and the other half believes he is a perfectly innocent and lovely upstanding member of society, who simply shuns church and religious things altogether. “The name’s Percival, I’m new. I imagine you must be my neighbor.”

Credence smiles dreamily, “Oh. You’re the handsome man from California… aren’t you?”

With any luck, the man, Percival, will pass this all off as a fever dream, so Credence lets the man help him inside, if only to warm up, to make them both something hot to drink, and try and sober up a little more.

Credence eyes him as he moves about the kitchen, somewhat held back from the quickest of motions by his injury. He’s still being awfully blase about Credence’s nudity. He’s not sure if it’s a good or bad thing, so he shrugs off the blanket, “Oops.”

Percival pays him no attention, but his cheeks go slightly pink.

“What happened anyway? You sleep naked or something? Wandering around like that could uh… well that’s basic indecency.”

“Good thing it’s a small town.” Credence fires back, and the man almost drops what he’s holding, which happens to be a packet of instant hot chocolate mix.

“Right. More like, lucky I’m retired.”

“Or…?” Credence is playing dumb, watching the man to see if he’s noticed how the blanket has been retrieved, and is now tucked around his waist toga style. Percival makes no comment, but does reply dryly, “Well, I’d have considered arresting you.”

“Sleepwalking is illegal now?” Credence guesses, and the man puts a hand to drag down his face, shaking his head. “No. Christ.”

Percival turns over to see Credence looking expectant, and then manages a sad smile.

“You’re older than you look, I’d wager. You’re trying to humor me.”

“Close, but no cigar.” Credence says, unsure suddenly why he’s giving up the game so easily. This man is no threat, he could obliviate him without so much as lifting a finger, but he doesn’t want to. He wants to actually help.

The man is clearly suffering, beyond the pain of his arm, and Credence could perform spells to fix that, bend the rules and laws of the land past their breaking point. Yet, all he wants in that moment is to do something rather selfish. He inches forward, trapping the man between the stove and his body, and he watches Percival’s chest stop moving as his breathing hitches.

Credence smiles faintly, leaning in close enough to smell the latent booze sharp on the man’s lips, “I’m old enough to smoke, but not drink. If it matters, officer.”

Percival doesn’t say anything, but his eyes are already lowering to Credence’s mouth. He knows it's pretty, he knows he has nice lips.

Mo’s only told him about a dozen times he oft looks like he stole some of Chastity’s lipstick.

Percival’s hooked and he doesn’t even know what on, yet. There’s no soul to be traded, no hearts to be won, Credence is just… going after what he wants.

Their lips meet and Credence keeps his eyes open, as Percival’s flutter shut, and he fairly melts under the weight of the kiss. He puts a hand to the man’s good shoulder, and squeezes gently, barely letting his tongue slide over Percival’s bottom lip. It’s a tease, a dare, and he gets a soft groan for his efforts, before he’s being shoved away, not forcibly, but firmly, with a hand in the very center of his chest. “Stop.”

Credence nods obediently, and then eyes Percival as he collects himself. The liquor is fighting his sobering charm, and the man sways on his feet, worrying Credence immensely. He should take his leave. “You’re… you’re not what they say. But you’re some other kind of dangerous.”

“Not what? A murderer? Don’t be so sure.”

Percival shakes his head,

“I’ve been around murderers. Shared a drink with one. Dinner. You’re not like that… that kind of evil has a scent.”

Credence has to agree, even if only in his head. It smells like lavender, and fresh printed paper. Fliers that call for death and casting out demons. He blinks, clearing his thoughts, and he considers what to do with the man.

Should he wipe his memories, change them, or simply treat this encounter like most, a mistake?

“I’ll leave you be. I didn’t mean to disturb you. You should be sleeping.” There’s a hint of suggestion in his voice, barely what could be called hypnotism by nomajs, but Percival, being currently less than his strong conscious self, bends to its will. To Credence’s.

When the man is gone from the kitchen, Credence lingers only a moment, turning the stove off, putting away the extra cup, and leaving the blanket folded perfectly over the back of the couch. With any luck, the man will blame the entire night on a very vivid bad dream. Or maybe a nice one, if he’s generous. He wanders back home, and Zara finds him in a heartbeat, mewing pathetically for cuddles, because she knows it’s past his usual bedtime.

“Shh-hh, it’s alright. I’m done for the night.” He scoops her up to his chest, and then goes to his room, waving a hand to douse the lights throughout the house, eventually falling asleep with Zara curled up on his chest, purring contentedly.


	3. Chapter 3

 

Percival wakes with a start, and something tingles in the back of his mind, making him put a hand to his mouth, fingertips tracing over his lips. He dreamt about kissing a dark angel. 

A young man who was far too beautiful to be human, and who’d left him without a word, only a look in eyes so endless they could have easily swallowed him whole. And an ache in his groin that needs to be quickly taken care of as soon as he can stumble into the shower.

It makes his heart ache to think of how badly he wants such a thing. To be held, to be kissed, to be loved. Theo was never someone that could happen with, but it hadn’t stopped Percival from loving him in a manner that went above and beyond professional relationships. 

Percival knows that’s why it's much harder to just  _ move on _ . He’s at the store when it happens again. He hears another whisper about the neighbor down the road. At the end of the lane. 

_ ‘The devil’s child.’  _

Honestly, it’s like these people watched one episode of the twilight zone and decided to spice things up. Was there something wrong with having a quiet town and peaceful happenings? Percival buys his things, and makes no comment. He’s done fighting it. 

He’ll morph into the old angry miser who lives outside town, and cavorts often with the devil instead of attending church. As if he’d be caught dead in a church. 

Considering the thoughts and dreams he’d been having for three days straight now, Percival is anything but the sort of person who would be greeted with open arms and a friendly smile. If they only knew. 

While he’s driving back to his house, he spots something on his mailbox. Not a bad thing, but he’s still concerned. It’s open, and there’s a letter sticking out. He’s not contacted anyone, no one has his address… except maybe his neighbors. 

Percival parks and goes to retrieve it, finding a handwritten note from the only person he’s not yet encountered. A _ ‘Credence Barebone.’  _ They claim to be interested in meeting him, and invite him to come by anytime for a drink. 

He appreciates the offer, but he’s not sure how to say  _ ‘no thanks’ _ politely, much less how to pass the message along without actually interacting with them. Percival tucks the letter in his pocket, and proceeds back inside his house. 

The next time he wakes up, he’s had another dream, and  _ this _ time instead of being merely curious from seeing the dark angel, he’s shaking with sweat and nerves under his sheets, painfully hard once more. His dark angel did more than kiss him in his mind, and he’s apparently been left unsatisfied. 

Percival groans into the night, and finally, reluctantly, reaches down to palm himself. Little shockwaves of pleasure jolt down his spine, and his skin feels tight and hot, too much, from just a little bit of contact. When his hand actually strokes over his cock, and his eyes flutter closed, all he can see is the man from his dreams. 

Theo isn’t a distant memory, but there’s no point in fantasizing further about him. It’s sadly, pointless. Not that the man of Percival’s dreams is bound to show up any time soon either, but hell, at least he’s kind and receptive. If imaginary. 

He tugs slowly and reverently over himself, unable to remember the last time he’d had any actual human interactions of a sexual persuasion, outside a mistaken one night stand with his ex’s best friend, and that had gone so badly as to not even be worth lingering on. 

Percival pictures the dark haired man, and imagines getting to touch all that pale skin, to mark it and kiss it, to bring rapturous delight to them both as they move together. His hand starts moving faster, slicked with precum and sweat, and Percival turns his head to the side, cheek pressing into the cool pillowcase for a hint of relief. 

His breathing speeds up along with his pulse, and eventually, his arousal crests with the thought of hearing another man finding equal satisfaction, at  _ his _ hand. Percival’s cock twitches and spurts wet warmth onto his hand, soaking into the sheets and dripping between his thighs. 

He exhales slowly, and his heart stops racing after a few moments, when he finally lets go of himself. He’s made a bit of a mess, but it feels so nice, remaining in the afterglow, he doesn’t want to move yet, though he should.

He falls asleep again, minutes later, and wakes up without an ounce of pain in his arm, though there is the matter of being almost stuck to his sheets. 

  
  


Credence knows it’s probably the dumbest thing he’s ever done, gone out of his way to break Rappaport's law, but honestly, at this point, what is MACUSA going to do to him that his ma hadn’t already? 

He’s got their loyalty and silence in exchange for the five years his magic suffered and festered and turned into a potentially mass murdering weapon in his gut. 

It has been quite satisfying knowing that the scandal of his accidental murder of his ma in self defense could have very nearly caused the vaporization of the whole of Uncertain Texas, thus, Credence is an unlikely hero, as well as a very responsible young wizard. 

Caring for his younger sisters hasn’t been difficult in the slightest, but Mo helps with the milking of the resources. She’s got no living relatives besides himself, and Chastity has family on the other side of the country, but she’s so far opted to stay with him until she graduates. 

It’s not long off now. He’s so proud of her, it’s hard to even think about it. Without the incident on his thirteenth birthday, he suspects she might have turned out just like ma, with less fondness for corporal punishments perhaps. 

Considering how Credence usually got the brunt of things, it surprised even him how long it took to actually snap back. It was when ma threatened to hurt Chastity too, for something she hadn’t even meant to do,  she’d been, as usual, trying to be on her best behaviour, and Credence covered for her. 

The end result was three adopted children becoming orphans, and the second hand of the President on their doorstep, or rather, in their living room, dazzling baby Mo and making Chastity look on the verge of fainting. As if watching ma die hadn’t been bad enough.

Not that anything dramatic had happened. One minute, she’d been demanding his belt, the next, she was laying on the floor, staring up at them both with unseeing eyes, and strange marks on her skin. 

Chastity ran to retrieve Mo, and Credence just stood there, looking at his palms, watching them beginning to heal anew from the morning's beating. The people in the living room explained everything, and Credence had been shipped off to northern Maine within a week for testing. 

It hadn’t been all bad or good, but in the end, he  _ did _ get to go home again, and now, was told he’d be starting at a school for people like him, as well as Chastity. 

The question of what would happen to baby Mo was resolved shortly enough. She was nomaj, through and through, but her only living family was them. 

So until they were able she’d be cared for. 

Credence argued and argued, and eventually, MACUSA had granted a guardian to stay with them, rather than taking Mo away. It seems to him still to that day, that being the only living obscurial to wrangle their powers has its perks. 

Plenty of downsides, like how he blew up every wand on first contact, and had to be built a custom one, as well as the sorting ceremony declaring he could only belong where great power did. Wampus. Credence didn’t see himself as a great warrior, but, he couldn’t argue with his own magic. He’d been able to choose a pet for his companion while at school, and thus he’d gone off and found Zara. Technically she was a nomaj feline, but he loved her just the same. He didn’t need some sort of animal with far too many heads and legs running around and scaring people in Uncertain worse than they already were.

When he returned to Texas with Zara after his first year at school, it became very obvious that just enough superstitious people had slipped through the cracks of magical erasings to label the Barebone house numerous things. There was the first, that of being haunted, for all the comings and goings of magic left traces, and it affected anyone nearby, from the mailman to wildlife. Secondly, that Credence had killed  _ everyone _ in his family, including his sisters, to make claim on supposed oil flowing under the Barebone land. 

It was utter lies, but Credence did have plenty of money thanks to his unknown ancestry. The third and worst of all, was that somehow he’d made a pact with the devil, sold his sisters to be possessed by demons, and been granted the power that came with that. 

He supposed, as the years passed, it became most probable, considering how different he looked to his sisters, how youthful he continued to appear, despite becoming a true adult in every sense of the word. If it made the townsfolk feel better about labeling him, so be it. He supposes that Zara doesn’t hurt, after all, black cats are bad luck. They are excellent cuddlers too.

It didn’t stop him from trying to make friends, and put an end to the gossip and rumors. 

His magic no longer leached out of him at its own will, and he was an official graduate from Ilvermorny, with promise and honors that accompanied his name. 

Yet he declined, every year, the offer to work for MACUSA. 

“Not until Modesty has completed her schooling.” He says each time. 

The new President, Madame Picquery agrees to his terms, and still, sent him menacingly lovely christmas cards. Credence would smile at them, and promptly toss them into the fireplace. He didn’t trust her not to try and trace him, or keep some kind of eye on him. 

He knows when the man looks at the letter, and takes it with him, not to destroy, but to keep. Perhaps he’s still crafting a reply. Credence isn’t sure. He goes about his business for the next few days, expecting at any moment in the afternoon that he’ll get a knock on the door or find a letter in reply telling him to quit bothering a sad old man. Zara’s no help, she walks around and randomly mewls and hisses at shadows, and refuses to leave his side.

_ ‘I hope he likes cats,’  _ He thinks to himself more than once.

Credence knows better than to be too negative about things. He trusts the man wants to get better, deep down. Credence has seen his own pain, of a sort, echoed in the man’s eyes. 

He’s out there, in the middle of nowhere Texas recovering from more than a war wound, from an on the job gunshot, he’s got real hurt inside that eventually he’ll need to face. Credence aches to be able to help him, to give him even a bit of temporary relief. 

That’s what spurs on the dream visits. 

He’s not there, not really kissing Percival, holding him to his chest, stroking his hair and telling him to please, please be open to him, but in the man’s mind, it’s real enough. 

Credence knows, eventually, it should be enough to draw the man out, to force a reaction from him. Hell, Credence himself is becoming lonely, wistful, considering another naked journey down the lane though the full moon is far off yet. 

But he knows the basic human desires, and he believes they share a connection, of a sort, even if it might have been induced mainly by alcohol and his own beauty. Credence drags a hand over Zara’s back, and smiles to himself when she gives him a questioning stare. 

 


End file.
